


Where Things Went Wrong (and how they were righted)

by johnlockedstarkid (wholockian007)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, POV John Watson, post-s4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-09 05:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14710212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholockian007/pseuds/johnlockedstarkid
Summary: John Watson had been through so many crazy, nonsensical things. Things that, if he were to recount them to others, nobody would believe. But they had happened. He was certain of it. And that was all that mattered, wasn't it?





	1. The Calm After the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of post-S4 fix-it fic. This was inspired by an exchange between inevitably-johnlocked and yorkiepug on tumblr. They were talking about S4 and theories that make it make the most sense, and my brain went running with it.

It had been a long day after a long week after a long month after a batshit crazy year, but finally,  _finally,_ as John spray painted the smiley back onto the wall of 221b, the insanity was over and he could relax. The flat had been completely rebuilt, and he and Sherlock were back to how they had always been. The detective and his blogger. 

Settling into his chair, John sighed and looked over to Sherlock. "You know something?" he started, chuckling a bit as Sherlock took a breath. "It was a leading question; don't answer that."

"Very well," Sherlock replied. "Though for the record, I do. I know many things. Including how pleased you are to finally get to relax. But please; what were you going to say?"

John didn't respond immediately, instead rolling his eyes and shaking his head a bit. Clever git. Trust him to find a way to answer and show off anyway... 

"I was going to say, now that everything we've been through has ended, it almost feels like none of it ever happened. The flat is back to normal, we're back to how we've always been. If I didn't have such distinct memories, I'd be tempted to think it had all just been a bad dream. Strange, isn't it? The war was just as harrowing, but I never thought of that the same way."

"That was something you trained for. Something you signed up for. You knew what you were getting into," Sherlock countered, pushing himself up from the sofa and walking over the coffee table to settle in his chair. "You never volunteered for anything more than crime solving when you moved in with me. To go through everything that's happened since... you know - it's a different type of trauma. One that your mind would rather distance itself from, thus removing it a step from reality by making it seem as though it were a dream. And given time, you may end up forgetting it entirely. Like me with Eurus. I never purposefully deleted her. But the trauma surrounding her was too much for me to handle."

"Still. Psychology aside, it's a weird feeling to know it happened but feel as though it never did." Shrugging, John looked around the room, a bemused smile pulling at his lips as he thought of how incredible this situation was. There was a time not long ago where he'd sworn to himself that he'd never be back in this flat again. A time that he didn't think he could ever forgive Sherlock for all the loss he'd suffered because of him. But one crazy Saw asylum and a rescue from nearly drowning in a well later, and here he was. Some things you just couldn't go through together without being close to the other person afterwards.

"I should go get Rosie now we're done in here," he said after a few moments, standing up and making his way towards the stairway. "I don't want to burden Mrs. Hudson for too long."

"Yes, you do that," Sherlock replied, disinterested. "And while you're down there, tell her that my parents want to visit this Saturday. Something about Mycroft insisting the family get together. I don't know why."

"Okay. But why does Mrs. Hudson need to know?"

"Well, she's got to make tea, of course." John didn't even need to look to know he was getting the 'did you seriously just ask that' look. He could feel it boring into the back of his head.

"Sherlock, I can do that. And besides, she's our landlady-"

"Not your housekeeper. Exactly, John," Mrs. Hudson interrupted, opening the door with Rosie expertly cradled in one arm. "I hope you don't mind me intruding; when I heard all the bustling about stop I figured you must be ready to have your daughter back."

"Yeah, that's right. I was just about to come get her, in fact," John replied, taking Rosie and pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Thank you for watching her while we finished everything up."

"Oh, it's not a problem, John. My pleasure, really," she said with a smile before moving over to stand in front of Sherlock. "Now, Sherlock, what is this about me making tea when John is perfectly capable of it?"

"Not my request. Mycroft said you should. Said something about John being too busy with other things."

"Oh brilliant. What's he making me do now?" John groaned. Couldn't he get more than three days of peace before being plunged back into chaos? "What's so important that I do instead of one of the people actually working for him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Don't know. Didn't say. I'm sure he'll let you know when he's ready to."

"Of course..." Frowning, John looked towards where he knew Mycroft had made sure a camera was reinstalled. "Can you make nothing straightforward? I thought the crypticness would have been over with by now." He knew saying that wouldn't help anything, but complaining made him feel a little better. "Anyway. At least I get a couple days to just take care of you, Rosie. It's not much of a reprieve, but it's something."

"Please, you'd be bored after three days of doing nothing anyway. You know the calm, regular life doesn't suit you," Sherlock commented, using his arms to lift himself so he could squat in his chair.

"I have an infant child and a volatile, case-less genius to take care of. In what way is that calm _or_ regular?"

Squinting slightly, Sherlock glared at John; not because he'd been called volatile but because he'd been proven wrong. And also reminded that he didn't have any cases.

"Look at the two of you. Just like old times," Mrs. Hudson said, laughing softly. "In honor of that, just this once I'll make tea for your family, Sherlock. But just this once, mind you. Don't get used to it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock replied, starting to chuckle himself after a moment. And that made John smile. Things really were like old times again. 


	2. Violins and Heartbeats

By the time Saturday morning rolled around, John was, as he'd predicted, not bored. However, he was incredibly tired. He'd never really noticed it before, but Rosie was not a good sleeper. She went down for her naps nicely, but she would not sleep through the night. Instead she had him up multiple times a night, whether it be because she needed a diaper change or because she was hungry or just because she had woken up and couldn't get back to sleep herself. And on top of that, during the day he'd had to deal with a stroppy Sherlock who was slowly going stir crazy because Lestrade insisted that he take some time to recover from everything he'd been through. 

So, once Rosie had finished her breakfast and he'd properly burped her, he set her down in her playpen and stifled a yawn as he looked to where Sherlock was dramatically draped over his chair. "I can't believe I'm saying this, especially with your family visiting and you in case withdrawal, but I need you to watch Rosie for me," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm exhausted, and if I'm going to be able to do whatever it is your brother wants me to do, I have to get some proper rest. So please take care of her."

Sherlock merely hummed in response, and for a while John thought that was all he was going to get (and at this point he was desperate enough to take it), but then the detective lifted his head. "I'll watch her. You go get some sleep, John," he said, his voice uncharacteristically soft. 

Part of John's mind registered the strange tone in Sherlock's voice, but he was really too tired to care. So he just smiled, nodded and mumbled out a quick thanks, and made his way back to his bedroom. Flopping unceremoniously onto the bed, he shifted a little to get comfortable and then he was out like a light. 

* * *

A few hours later, he woke up again, feeling much more refreshed. Still not truly awake, but refreshed enough to deal with whatever would be thrown his way later on. Making his way downstairs, he heard Rosie fussing, and he was about to step in when another noise made him pause. It was Sherlock, shushing her softly. Curious, John paused, wondering what he was doing.

"Shh, Rosie. It's okay. John - er, Dad - will be down soon," Sherlock said, his usual deep and calculating voice taking a much lighter and soothing tone. "But he needs his rest right now, alright? You've been keeping him up, and he's not used to that anymore. Though it's not entirely your fault; I know I haven't been making his days much easier."

Blinking, John crept closer, just barely peeking through the door so he could see what was going on. This was so unlike him. The last time Sherlock had behaved this way... Hell, John couldn't think of a time. And yet there he was, cradling Rosie against his chest as if it was the most natural thing for him to do. And Rosie, for her part, had actually stopped crying. It was remarkable.

"I wish I could help how I get when I have nothing to focus on. I know he must think I'm ridiculous and annoying. But I don't do good with nothing. I need stimulation or I get restless and frustrated and there's nothing I can do about it. Kind of like you. You can't do a thing for yourself, so you cry when you need something. It's all you know how to do. I can't function without something to dedicate my mind to, so I complain and make a racket to try and alleviate it or be provided with something to distract me. It's all I know how to do. But I'd give anything not to be that way. To be someone who wouldn't consistently drive your father mad..."

As he listened, John felt his heart swell. He had no idea Sherlock felt that way, or that he thought that was how he was viewed. Part of him wanted to go in and reassure him, but before he could move Sherlock had set Rosie back in her playpen and picked up his violin. 

"How about I play for you, hm? That should keep you calm, and it shouldn't disturb your father either." Smiling, Sherlock brought the instrument up to settle against his chin and started to play a soft melody. 

Stepping back a bit, John leaned against the wall and smiled to himself as he listened to the music. It really was relaxing, and he had to wonder if Sherlock was really playing it for Rosie. After what he'd said, he wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock was playing it to calm his own nerves. Regardless, it stirred something in John's chest. Something he hadn't ever felt before. It was almost like his heart was trying to work overtime; to bring him to a higher level of life that he'd never been on before. It was actually kind of daunting. 

So, shaking himself a bit, John stepped into the room properly, knocking lightly on the doorframe to alert Sherlock to his presence. As the detective turned, he smiled, gesturing for him to finish the song while he moved in and took a seat in his chair. And he listened intently as Sherlock played, allowing himself to be lost in the music; only brought out when the last note faded into silence.

"I hope my playing didn't wake you," Sherlock said once he'd put his violin away. "Do you feel better now?"

"The playing was fine," John replied. "I was just on my way down when it started. No worries. And I do. Not completely, but better enough to be prepared for your brother."

"Good. Rosie behaved quite well while you were asleep. She only got upset once, but I was able to calm her down. However, I think she needs a diaper change."

"Which, of course, you left to me," John said, shaking his head. Now _that_ was typical Sherlock. 

 


	3. Return to Sherrinford

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of what could be called the preface. Or a prologue. Whichever term you prefer. In any case, the next chapter is where things start getting real.

A few hours after the violin incident, John was settled in his chair, watching Rosie play in her pen. Fortunately the rest of the day had been calm, so he was able to maintain his rested state. But as he heard the purposeful stride of footsteps coming up the stairs, he knew the moment of calm was at an end. Mycroft had arrived; followed shortly by the Holmes parents judging by the sound.

"Hello, Mycroft. I've been told you want something from me," John said. "Some errand for me to run while you and your parents visit with Sherlock?"

"Goodness, no. With his lack of cases, he'd be horrendously insufferable without you around," Mycroft replied, stepping smoothly into the room. "And besides, when have you ever known me to make purely social calls?"

"That would be never. You always have some ulterior motive. And Sherlock did say this visit was your idea, so why invite everyone over here?" John asked. "Out of everyone, you should surely know that's not exactly proper."

"Indeed I do. Which is why we aren't here to stay; merely to pick you and Sherlock up."

At the mention of his name, Sherlock popped his head out from the kitchen, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead. "Pick us up? What for? I'm in the middle of studying the effects of different combinations of chemicals on human skin."

"Yes, well, that shall simply have to be put on hold. I did say I wanted to get the whole family together, did I not?" Mycroft said. 

"You did, but what does that...? Oh..." Trailing off, Sherlock put aside his goggles and took off his protective apron. "You're including.."

"I am." Mycroft nodded. "Our parents haven't seen her in decades, and since you were able to start her on the process of healing, I felt it appropriate to have everyone reconnect."

"Then how am I involved?" John asked, standing and moving to be a more direct part of the conversation. 

"Well, Sherlock says you're family by this point, so getting the whole family together now includes you."

"...wonderful." He got to go on a return trip to Saw Asylum Island. Exactly the one place he'd never wanted to see again. "I don't suppose I have a choice?"

"I'm afraid not. I've already booked your passage along with everyone else's."

"Ugh. Well then let's get this over with."

* * *

A long and boring journey later, John once again stepped foot on the island. The moment his foot touched the ground, he was filled with unease, so he stayed to the back of the group, tagging along but not really feeling present. He couldn't let himself. There were too many bad memories associated with this place. 

Keeping his head down, he put himself into a far corner of the room with Eurus' cell. She still looked like the girl from The Ring, and though not quite as evil in her interactions with her family, she was still as unsettling as ever. But things were fine. It was okay. It was...

"John.." Eurus said, blinking as she noticed him and practically gliding to be in front of him on the other side of the glass. "What are you doing here?"

Jumping as her voice cut through his thoughts, John looked up to her and shrugged a bit. "I dunno. Ask Mycroft. He's the one who brought me along."

"No. What are you doing _here?"_ she asked again.

The repetition with the strange emphasis did nothing to confuse John any less, but he couldn't help feeling drawn in by her, as if they were the only ones in the room.

"We are, John. We are the only ones. _You_ are the only one."

"What the hell? How could you have possibly known I was thinking that?" Yeah, she was freaky, but that was a step too far.

"No it's not. It's perfectly reasonable. I'm in your head, and you're starting to come back."

"Come back? Come back to what?"

"To life. Don't you remember? I do. I'm the small part of your mind that knows you were shot."

"Shot? No, it was a tranquilizer..."

"That's just what you told yourself to keep from panicking as you lost consciousness while bleeding out on the floor." Tapping the glass, Eurus shook her head a bit and stepped right through it; the barrier vanishing as if by magic. "You even assigned me the role of being the one who shot you. You are quite clever in that way."

"Okay. Okay. Hold on," John said, shaking his head. "You don't exist? None of this has happened?" Had he injected some of Sherlock's chemicals by accident? Was he tripping out, high out of his mind right now? That was the only way any of this could make sense...

"Do you really think you could have survived an explosion like that? Did you expect that if I could escape this prison, I would have come back, were I really who you thought I was? Do those things make more sense than all of this being fake?"

"I... I have got to be losing my mind."

"You're the one who called this Saw Asylum Island. And it's not a coincidence I look like Samara. You needed to conjure something up to deal with the trauma of nearly dying. And you watch too many horror movies late at night."

"Okay, this is too damn weird. Eurus, whatever mind tricks you're playing, whatever drugs you've started pumping into this chamber..."

"It's just real oxygen, John... John... John..."

Suddenly, John's head and chest really started hurting, and the echoing of his name took on a deeper, more frantic tone. The room was going all dark, with a high pitched beeping echoing all around him, and he fell to the ground as it became incredibly difficult to move. Drawing a few deep breaths, he squeezed his eyes shut, desperately hoping that when he opened them back up, this weird purgatory drug trip/fever dream would be over...

 


End file.
